


weary as water

by basketofnovas (slashmarks)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Pahlavi Iran, Past Iran/Judea, Politics, References to Genocide, and this is in the same verse as my Iran/Israel fic but like, it's mostly about them making horrible first impressions on each other WITHOUT the hatesex so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 15:26:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmarks/pseuds/basketofnovas
Summary: “For the record,” Iran says, gazing with no particular focus in the general direction of the parties involved in the problem, “I told you this was a bad idea. I voted against it in the UN committee. I mean, my delegates, obviously, but I agreed with them.”*Iran would like it to be known that her alcoholism is entirely the responsibility of the shah; Israel is a problem in bad tailoring; and b'nei Israel just wishes they would both at least pretend they're in polite company for fifteen minutes.





	weary as water

**Author's Note:**

> Quick who's who:
> 
> Iran is, of course, the Imperial State of Iran, presently (1949) under the leadership of Mohamed Reza Shah and a disbanded parliament and unhappy about it.
> 
> Israel/Zion is the modern state of Israel, independent of British colonial rule as of last year, during which he won a civil war against Palestine and the Arab Liberation army and subsequently a second state of conflict against several other Arab countries.
> 
> Ancient Israel/b'nei Israel is the community of Israelites and all of their descendants (mostly Jews and a handful of Samaritans at this point) who consider themselves more or less one nation more or less bound by the law of the Torah, and also the state of Israel's (long suffering) mother.
> 
> Judea, appearing only in Iran's internal monologue as Deceased Ex, was the Kingdom of Judea and its subsequent provinces under foreign rule until its population was more or less destroyed by Rome.
> 
> All of this takes place sometime in middle-ish 1949, between the February purge of the Tudeh party and crackdown and the reinstitution of the Mujlis/Parliament.
> 
> For additional historical notes, check the end.
> 
> Title is from "Swing" by Ani DiFranco.

“For the record,” Iran says, gazing with no particular focus in the general direction of the parties involved in the problem, “I told you this was a bad idea. I voted against it in the UN committee. I mean, my delegates, obviously, but I agreed with them.”

Deborah rubs her temples, a gesture increasingly common in her these days.

Iran squints and tries to decide if her face is more lined than it was a few years ago. It's kind of difficult. They haven't spoken much since Deborah divorced the Ottoman and her face was generally covered then.

“Be that as it may, it's done,” Deborah says.

“Until someone invades you,” Iran points out.

“Let them,” says the problem in question, snorting and tossing his head like an antsy horse. An appropriate metaphor – the yearling colt, convinced he is yet a stallion.

“Israel,” Iran says, and both of them look at her.

Oh, damn them all; two Israels is too confusing and too many. He's going to have to be Zion and stop complaining about it. “Not you. Zion. I understand that you are young and overconfident, having won a battle no one expected you to win, but that won't last. You are very tiny and everyone hates you. That is a bad position to be in.”

True, her adolescent overconfidence was much more offensive. On the other hand, she had more to justify it with the largest empire the world had known in the hands of her beloved sovereign Kurush.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

She has a pounding headache; she would like to blame it on the problem who is glaring at her from the offensively tailored army uniform – _army uniform_ , at a _private diplomatic meeting_ , if Iran had not heard Deborah claim him as her son with her own ears she would not give it credit. Sadly, she is unpleasantly aware that the matter actually at fault is her hangover.

Oh, well, no one has ever accused her of being too ruthlessly honest to herself – at least not recently. She imagines fancifully that it is not the aftereffects of alcohol causing the pounding ache of dehydration, but Britain's perpetual sucking at her oil; the draining of her vital fluids. Even with better treatment bought for her employees with their strike, nothing can stop the British taking the cursed material in the first place.

Even for her and in these times, this is a tad melodramatic, and particularly so while sober and at ten o'clock in the morning. Iran gives it all up for a bad hand and gets up to pour them tea. “Sit down,” she commands them both and goes off to allow Deborah time to wrestle her recalcitrant offspring.

Alright, so Israel has a state again; and so it is secular and does not include enough of the worldwide population for Deborah's older and comparatively cooler head to prevail; and all young nations are idiots, that isn't news.

But why – God, please tell her why – does he have to look so much like Judea?

That headache isn't getting any better. Fortunately – or unfortunately – brandy is the same color as tea. She pours the former for herself and the latter for her guests before carrying the set back into the sitting room.

Deborah, as always, is not fooled, judging by her suspicious squint at the beverages. On the other hand her offspring seems to be completely distracted with a rigid terror of breaking the tea cup, judging by his posture and care.

“That's worth more than your life,” Iran informs him without looking up.

“This is your cheapest set,” Deborah says, before Zion can comment. “Azerbaijan bought it for you at the last minute for Eid, that time she used your actual gift to bribe the KGB to let her leave. It cost less than the tea.”

“This is very nice tea,” Iran says, but concedes the point in spirit. “She _is_ a dear friend of mine and one I haven't been able to see lately. The origins make it valuable.”

It would probably be undiplomatic to suggest she merely considers Zion's life less valuable than a cheap tea set. Deborah may be fond of her, and Iran returns it more or less on alternate decades, but threatening her son isn't going to make this meeting more pleasant.

“So glue it back together if he breaks it,” Deborah says. “--I take it the shah hasn't improved if you're drinking at work.”

“We have an agreement. I'll stop drinking when he stops driving me to drink. Otherwise he keeps his damn mouth shut.” Even with the ruse utterly seen through, she sips the brandy as though it was tea; there is no need to give up all pretense at taste. She might have descended totally into alcoholism since February's crackdown, but she will at least have _class_ about it.

“Who's drinking at work?” Zion says, who does not appear to be insulted by the lie about the tea cup.

“That's not tea in her cup,” Deborah says.

“How did you--”

“The shade is different from the others, and she brewed the tea in one pot.” Deborah sets down her cup and does not move to pick it up again; damned Levantines have no taste, Iran reflects.

Zion is hunched like he expects the table to blow up in front of him, but his tone is more or less civil as he says, “Can we get back to the part where my existence is a bad idea?”

“I didn't say that.” Iran is if anything grateful for his lack of manners; it makes it easier to distinguish him from her memories of Judea. “What is a bad idea is that ridiculous partition plan, which we said would result in generations of fighting. Which we were correct about.”

“There's only been one war so far,” Zion mutters sulkily.

“Is that the collective we, or did the shah consult you on the subject?” Deborah asks. She raises her tea cup, but doesn't drink, only turns it in her hands.

“Don't be absurd. He'd sooner consult his dog. I only happen to agree with him this time.”

Deborah shrugs. “The whole matter was cursed the second Britain put his hands on the region. If we're lucky, what he stirred up will recede to the usual background levels of xenophobia in a few years.”

“If not?” Iran raises her eyebrows.

Deborah shrugs. “At least the pogroms in Palestine have stopped.” The weariness in her voice is palpable; they are both aware that the pogroms in _Palestine_ were fairly minor in the grand scheme of things.

“Better the Arabs than you?” Iran says drily, skirting the whole subject.

“I try not to worry about what I can't change,” Deborah says.

Both parts of that statement are blatant lies, but Iran does not call her on it.

“Noam,” Deborah says to the offspring, who is picking at the threads in the cuffs of his damned _army uniform_ as though he does not appreciate the effort it took someone to sew the thing together in the first place. Iran wonders uncharitably if he will be the one to mend it when he pulls the seam apart, or if Deborah will.

It appears that she is reminding him of something they already discussed, because Zion sits up straight then, and stops fidgeting. “Um,” he says, which is at least an _inoffensive_ beginning, no doubt better than whatever it is he has to stay. “We're here to thank you, actually.”

“Thank me?” Iran says, mildly incredulous. This is hardly the way to go about it, and she's done little enough for them worth thanking her for.

“For allowing the Jewish refugees from Iraq into your borders. And for coordinating with us to get them home. To me, I mean. If you weren't willing to do that, a lot more people would have died.”

The words come off as sincere, but his tone is slightly mutinous.

He _is_ a young nation, so she supposes she ought to show him the correct response. She straightens herself, setting down her tea cup of brandy. “Thank you,” she says. “We are interested in deepening our relations.” The collective we, once more, leaves no room for her own opinions – but that isn't exactly new.

“Yeah,” Noam mutters, hunching again, whatever he rehearsed with his mother accomplished. “Your officials were real happy about the bribe money from refugees, weren't they?Did you get any of their jewelry, yourself?”

“ _Noam,_ ” Deborah chides, and turns to apologize to Iran for the rudeness.

Shadows from the light fall across her face. For a moment the lines around her eyes and mouth deepen, making her appear sixty or eighty instead of forty. She seems entirely sincere, scolding Zion for saying something that is entirely true with a mildly personal offensive question at the end of it; of course, the habits of desperate appeasement have been well-ingrained in her. She is much more polite than when Iran met Israel and Judea for the first time.

Virtue or flaw, her son obviously does not share it. Iran frowns slightly, takes another sip of brandy.

When Zion ducks his head, rounding his shoulders, for a second she sees Judea again, as he was under her rule: walking with her in Jerusalem observing the new construction, smiling shyly at her enthusiasm, never quite able to look her in the eyes.

Civility be damned, Iran drains the rest of the cup in a single swallow.

And to think. If they actually recognize Zion's state, she will have to look at him _all of the time._

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a hard one to footnote in any complete sense, but some quick notes:
> 
> After an assassin aligned with the popular and socialist/communist Tudeh party failed to kill the shah in February 1949, the shah sentenced the party's members to death, declared martial law, discontinued Parliament and reconvened it with the upper house, allowing him to nominate half the membership. He then overhauled the government in his favor. ( _A History of Modern Iran_ by Ervand Abrahamian, chapter four, "The Nationalist Interregnum.")
> 
> On Deborah divorcing the Ottoman - [the Ottoman Empire actively solicited Jewish emigration, and for a long time Jews made up a very substantial part of its population and were fairly influential; likewise a substantial portion of the Jewish diaspora lived under Ottoman rule.](http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/turkey-virtual-jewish-history-tour) As for the characters, consider it an economic and political relationship, not a romantic one.
> 
> On [British oil concessions in Iran.](http://www.iranchamber.com/history/articles/oil_iran_between_world_wars.php)
> 
> Escalating violence against the Jewish population of Iraq in the forties under the influence of Nazi antisemitism eventually led most of the ancient Jewish community to flee to Israel. A number of these refugees were smuggled through Iran, which officially allowed it, in exchange for a certain amount of bribery. ([Times of Israel ](http://www.timesofisrael.com/the-expulsion-that-backfired-when-iraq-kicked-out-its-jews/) | [Forward](http://forward.com/culture/199257/the-inconvenient-truth-about-jews-from-arab-lands/))
> 
> Azerbaijan is [in 1949 a part of the USSR](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Azerbaijan_Soviet_Socialist_Republic), but has historical and cultural ties to Iran.
> 
> [On alcohol in Iran](http://www.nytimes.com/2006/04/03/world/africa/iran-finds-7000yearold-liquor-habit-is-tough-to-break.html) (with reference to the modern political situation, which post-dates this fic, but it covers some history, too).


End file.
